


Safe House

by justanothersong



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Hate Sex, Love/Hate, Mission Fic, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 17:51:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7902109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothersong/pseuds/justanothersong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission gone bad leaves the reader stranded in a safe house in the middle of nowhere with the one agent she cannot stand. With no extraction coming in the foreseeable future, how ever will the reader spend her days trapped alone with Bucky Barnes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe House

Your back hit the hard tile floor with enough force to knock the breath out of you, but you didn’t stop moving, reaching for the gun you kept in your thigh holster. You were bleeding from the corner of your mouth and you were fairly certain that at least one of your ribs was cracked if not broken, but none of that slowed you down; you had trained long and hard to be able to work through the pain and it served you well. You managed to get off two shots and take down the enemy agent who had been advancing on you; once out of danger, you groaned and got to your feet.

“This is a god damn ambush,” you spat into your communications device. “They knew I was coming.” The telltale crackling in your earpiece told you that your message had been heard. 

“Copy,” came the reply. “We’re clocking at least six more live bodies in the building with you. Suggesting an immediate abort.”

“Copy that, dispatch. I’m outta here. Do we have an extraction team in place, or am I on my own?” you asked, surveying your escape options. You were in a lower level corridor and would need to go up at least one floor in order to access a direct route to safety.

“Negative on extraction,” the voice on your comm responded, and you groaned. 

“Natasha, what the hell is going on? This entire mission is a clusterfuck!” you said in annoyance, trudging up a dark stone stairwell. Your voice attracted attention and you barely had enough time to crack the barrel of your gun to the back of a guard’s head when he began to turn towards you.

“General Harrow decided to tonight was the night to start a coup,” came Natasha’s acerbic voice over the comm. “Local law and military are no longer considered friendlies. You need to get out and get to a border safehouse as soon as possible.”

“Wonderful,” you muttered, shaking your head. You’d been dropped three miles from the building you had infiltrated with expectation of a pick-up once you had gotten the intelligence you had been sent to gather. You never made it to the computer system; your intel had said there would be two guards and no staff on site, but you’d shot five and incapacitated two others, with heat signature readings coming from the flyover telling you there were at least a half dozen more to contend with.

“We’re receiving fire from local military, we need to retreat to friendly airspace,” Natasha’s voice came back over the comm. “I’m sending you safehouse coordinates. It’s 47 miles due west, you’ll have to stick to back roads to avoid the military blockades.”

“What am I gonna do, jog?” you responded sarcastically. 

“There are three jeeps parked out back,” Natasha told you, real concern in her voice. “Take your pick but get out of there as fast as you can. The General provided a lot of the intel for this op and he’s moving some serious hardware in your direction. Move it.”

There were no keys in any of the jeeps, but they were older models and you were able to hotwire one quickly. The coordinates for the safe house, along with an electronic passcode to enter the back door, arrived as a text message on your secured cell phone before you had even pulled out onto the gravelly road that would take you to the main thoroughfare. You’d set a timed explosive device to use as a distraction and keep anyone from following you, and you saw it go off with a bright blast of fire and smoke, lighting up the night sky in your rearview mirror. 

At least you wouldn’t have anyone tailing you.

 

You’d been working with SHIELD for seven years, only two of which saw you as a full-fledged agent. You’d started in paramilitary tactical planning and showed enough skill and promise to be chosen for training with the Black Widow herself, Natasha Romanoff. That led you into covert ops and infiltration, where you had advanced into the ranks among some of the best and brightest of the field. It was difficult work but you excelled at it, and at the end of the day you could go home knowing you had done some good in the world.

On the days you could actually go home, that is. And not be stuck speeding down the countryside of a volatile foreign nation on the brink of collapse. 

But every job had its downsides, right?

 

It took well over an hour to find safe house. It looked like an abandoned farmhouse with an equally abandoned barn out back. There had been little else for miles; no farms, no homes, not even streetlights, just miles and miles of overgrown field and forest. The barn provided a safe place to stash the jeep and you approached the back door of the house slowly, on the off chance it had been compromised.

It looked like a standard wooden door, weather-worn with paint stripped away and the wood here and there pitted from the elements. The third panel beneath the boarded up window on the door, however, held a secret; you slid it to the left as you had been taught to expect, and found a metal plate and keypad hidden there, the keys lighting up to glow green into the dark once they had been exposed. You punched in the code you had been sent and heard the steel security door hiding behind the wood unlatch to allow you entrance. Heaving a deep sigh, you stepped inside, grateful that your running was through for the night.

The door locked behind you as you closed it and you pulled your communicator earpiece out, choosing instead to dial a number from your phone; it still held a signal, in spite of the rural setting, thanks to a satellite communications link.

“You make it to the safe house?” Natasha said by way of greeting.

“Yeah, just got in,” you replied with a sigh, taking in your surroundings. The inside looked more or less as you had expected; it really was an old farmhouse, after all, and the furniture showed some age. It was dusty in the kitchen you had entered, and the windows were all boarded over, but use of the security keypad and kicked on a generator to give some sparse power to the building and a dim bulb glowed from a light fixture overhead. 

“Could use a little housekeeping in this place,” you added, running your gloved hand over the dusty surface of the kitchen table.

Natasha snorted over the line. “I don’t think we’ve used the place in a decade,” she relented. “There should still be some shelf-stable food and water, firewood, all of the basics around the house though. Just keep a low profile and stay inside until we can get a team out for extraction.”

“How long?” you asked, frowning. Surely they could just turn the quinjet around to come back for you, couldn’t they?

“Hard to say,” Natasha replied. “This isn’t the friendliest neighborhood for us and it’s looking like Harrow has the backing of at least two hostile border states. It’s going to take time.”

You groaned. “Fantastic,” you replied. “This is what I get for booking a post-mission spa day.”

Natasha laughed on the other end of the line. “When you get home, we’ll re-book. Stark can cover the tab, it was his bright idea to try this tonight. Look, we’re going to have to cut this call short, there’s some concern the line has been compromised. We have another agent in the area who’s en route to the safe house to lay low with you, we’ll be back in contact as soon as we can.”

“Another agent?” you echoed, frowning. You hadn’t heard of any further ops in the area. “Who?” you asked, but the line crackled and went dead.

You groaned and threw your phone on the table. So much for your extraction.

 

You sighed and stretched, grunting at the sudden sharp pull across your ribs and remembering with annoyance the beating you had taken before you had escaped your failed mission. The adrenaline of your escape had been running high enough to mask the pain but now that you were relatively safe if was wearing off, leaving you sweaty, sore, and exhausted. You decided to get cleaned up while you waited for the other agent headed your way; you weren’t looking forward to sharing the space but at least you had first dibs on any beds in the place.

There were no lights in the living room or the stairway to the upper floor, but you found a flashlight in the kitchen that helped you navigate through the darkened rooms. There was a dim ceiling light in the bathroom and it turned on when you flipped the switch. There were clean linens and towels in a closet in the hall, sealed in plastic to protect from dust, and an array of soaps and hygiene products beneath the bathroom sink. A quick check into one of the bedrooms found dresser drawers stocked with the basics in clothing: t-shirts, sweatpants, socks, and underwear in varying sizes, all packaged in the same protective plastic as the towels and sheets. 

You decided to get cleaned up before you had any company, and quickly showered in the small bathroom. The water had run rusty for a moment but quickly cleared, and got hot enough to be comfortably warm. You dried off and slipped into a t-shirt several sizes too big, having found nothing better for your size, and pulled on a pair of thick clean socks. As an afterthought, you rinsed out a few of your things and hung them over the shower curtain rod.

SHIELD was a progressive enough organization, but they still weren’t quite at the point of leaving a stash of bras of various sizing in their safe houses.

 

You heard sudden movement downstairs and you quickly moved towards your belongings, still resting atop the mattress in the first bedroom you had encountered. You grabbed your Glock from your belt and started for the stairs, moving in silence across the wooden floors, footsteps muted by the padding of your soft, clean socks.

You moved carefully down the stairs, noting immediately that the living room was clear but there was a shadowplay on the floor, coming from the kitchen. When you got near enough to see inside, you heaved a sigh and lowered your weapon.

“You could have said something when you got here,” you told him with a sigh. 

Looking up from where he sat at the kitchen table, tending to a wound on his forearm, Bucky paused a moment before he shrugged. “You’d have shot first and asked questions later if I’d just announced myself and waltzed in, doll,” he replied, and you huffed an irritated sigh.

 

You hadn’t had an overwhelming amount of contact with Bucky Barnes, though anyone in SHIELD could repeat his story word for word; his legend was only surpassed by that of his longtime friend, Captain America. Since you’d been on a first name basis with Natasha, their teammate, you’d met the others who comprised the Avengers once or twice and even worked an op with a few of them here and there.

But Bucky Barnes just irked the shit out of you.

He was surly. He was sarcastic. He had been living in the 21st century for years now and he still called women ‘doll’ and ‘dame’ and ‘sweetheart’ as a matter of course; the one time you had tried to subtly suggest he work on updating his vocabulary, he had smirked and responded with “Sure honey, I’ll get right on that”. 

The fact that Natasha hadn’t warned you just who exactly was heading your way had you even more irritated with the situation than you already were.

You clipped the safety on your gun and set it on the table, checking to make sure he had secured the door behind him before leaning against the wall and crossing your arms over your chest. 

Bucky glanced up at the movement, gathering the wrappers from his bandage. As he stood and moved towards a trash bin, he looked back at you over his shoulder.

“Just what kind of job were you workin’ tonight, doll?” he asked, and you flushed when you realized his eyes were drifting down your bare legs and back up again. The noise of his sudden intrusion had sent you venturing down to meet him in nothing but a t-shirt and socks, the sweatpants you had planned on wearing still laid out on the mattress upstairs.

“I took a shower, jackass,” you told him, frowning.

“Not a bad look for you,” Bucky countered, and flashed a smirk your way as he resumed his seat; it only served to make you more irritated.

You rolled your eyes and retrieved your gun from the table, mentally reminding yourself that Natasha would not be happy if you shot Bucky in his good arm for kicks, and turned to leave. You squeezed your eyes shut at the low wolf-whistle that came to your ears as you walked away, but refused to break your stride.

Even when he raised his voice to call after you, “Nice stems, doll!”

 

You were fuming when you returned to the bedroom you had chosen, and you whipped and tugged the sheets onto the mattress, all the while imagining a thousand and one things that you’d like to tell Bucky Barnes, including one very balmy place where he could go. He was even worse than you remembered; you recalled with some fondness the Bucky you had first met, who wouldn’t speak to you at all so much as read out his very own sexist teleplay. 

Once settled onto the bed, you grabbed for your phone. The signal wasn’t great but the battery was near full and you shot off a quick text message to your handler to let her know how happy you were with your current arrangements.

>> **You could have at least warned me** , you wrote.

>> **And have my protege running out to hide in the wilds to avoid him? I think not** , came her reply.

>> **I will shoot him if this goes on much longer** , you warn her, even as you smiled to yourself at her words. Being called her protege by the Black Widow herself was nothing to sniff at.

>> **24 hours, tops** , she told you, and you sighed. Seconds later, another message came through.

>> **Maybe 48** , she relented, and you groaned, tossing your phone aside onto the bed.

 

When morning came, it was still dark in the house, owing to the boarded windows. You squinted in the dimness, grabbing your phone from where you had thrown it, checking for the time and any word on your possible extraction. There were no messages, causing you to sigh in annoyance. 

The new day passed slowly. The house was dark and while full of old furniture, there was little to do in way of keeping yourself occupied. You had to force yourself to pocket your phone to keep from blowing the battery playing a knockoff Tetris game, and whenever you left the bedroom you had claimed, you seemed to run into Bucky, lounging about somewhere with a few irritating comments to share.

After another conversation with the man over a lunch of rehydrated noodles and water, you had been ready to punch him right in his handsome face. 

Not that you thought of him as handsome. Just… irritating.

You decided to check out the basement; the last safe house you had visited had been equipped with a small training room in the basement, and you hoped you might find something to occupy your time. You could have shouted for joy when the cellar light switch lit the room with a soft fluorescent glow and you spotted a punching bag and kickboxing dummy in the small basement room.

Natasha had taught you a lot in your time training with her, and you had been excited when she started teaching you some of the acrobatic kicks and holds she could do with her legs. The Widow’s legs were really something else: long, elegant, strong, and deadly. You aspired to that kind of control over your own body, to be able to take someone down on sheer force of agility. 

You weren’t really wearing the right shoes for it, and the sweatpants were big, hanging low on your hips, but it wasn’t as though you’d always be in your tactical gear when confronting an enemy, so you let yourself go, practicing the moves she had showed you over and over again until they could be thrown with ease.

You felt good, the exercise getting your blood pumping, adrenaline flowing. You always loved the feeling of stretched muscle and the fatigue that came with a good workout, gasping and grunting as you battered the kickboxing dummy so much as to push it back a few feet on the floor. You didn’t even realize how long you’d been there until you started to feel the ache that came with working a little too hard, and realizing you were practically bathed in sweat. You forced yourself to pause and take a few deep breaths, stretching onto your tip-toes and arching your back, hands on your hips, before deciding to call it a day and grab a shower.

When you turned to head back up the stairs, you nearly stumbled in surprise to see Bucky sitting on the middle step, watching you. You had no idea how long he’d been there, but he seemed well-relaxed into his seat and his eyes were dark, following you as you moved.

“That’s good form,” he finally spoke up as you mounted the bottom step. He didn’t move, but you were prepared to march right through him if you had to. “Natasha has been teaching you well.”

“What else do you think we do when we’re not working, Barnes?” you replied flippantly, rolling your eyes. “Watch Gossip Girl and braid each other’s hair?”

He didn’t reply, only shifted over a little on the stair to allow you a tiny sliver of wood to step on as you passed him. You had chalked that up as getting the last word for a change, until you had nearly reached the cellar door.

His voice was low and soft, but you still heard him.

“And those sounds you were making. God damn, doll. S’enough to drive a man wild.”

Clenching your fists and unable to formulate a response, you gritted your teeth and stomped up the last stair, slamming the door behind you. 

You could hear him chuckling even as you made for the living room and the staircase to the second floor.

 

The water in the shower was only lukewarm but that was fine; you needed to cool off a little anyway. It was bad enough that you had to be stuck cooped up with Bucky Barnes, a man who thought it was perfectly fine to comment on a co-worker’s body for god’s sake, but to have him following you around like a lost little puppy and running his mouth all the while was just too damn much.

It had taken a few years, but it had eventually sunk in with much of SHIELD and what members of the public who knew of his existence that Bucky wasn’t the monster he had once been. The Winter Soldier was dead and gone, and though this Bucky wasn’t quite the same sergeant who had once gone to war some seventy-odd years ago, he certainly wasn’t the cold-blooded inhuman killer that Hydra had made him. You were as glad as anybody that he had found some peace; you just wish he hadn’t turned out to be such an ass.

Of course, women were falling all over themselves over him. It was a bit pathetic, really. Sure, he had that gentlemanly thing about him, like Cap did -- always pulling out chairs, holding doors. He was in a meeting once with you and Natasha when Maria Hill walked in, and damn if he didn’t stand as she entered. It’s a pity that he couldn’t keep his trap shut long enough for that genteel facade to hold in place.

He swore like a truck driver and was ill-tempered, getting into arguments fairly easily. You’d never once heard him apologize to a soul. And he clearly had an eye for the ladies -- the dames, the dolls, sweetheart, sugar, babydoll… the words spilled over his lips like so much flowing honey that it would sometimes take a moment for it to sink in, what he had actually said. 

He was smooth as all get-out and annoying as hell.

He probably thought he was handsome too, you thought with a snort, letting the water rinse away the sweat and the ache of your workout. All piercing blue eyes and full, plush lips. He still hadn’t really cut his hair, not since he defrosted so far as you knew, and it hung past his ears in a very unkempt manner, certainly not what should be considered regulation for an organization like SHIELD, but they let an awful lot slide for Bucky and some of the others.

Bucky had a swagger to his walk and his waist was trim and his arms -- both, even that metal monstrosity -- were thick and strong and god damn it, he was sexy as all hell and driving you up the god damn wall. Even as you groaned in irritation and leaned your head back against the cool tile of the shower wall, you were remembering his long thick fingers as they toyed with the wrapping for his bandage and the scruff on his face that you knew, you just knew would feel amazing against your own soft skin.

God, he was an asshole.

You just wanted to slap him, you wanted to hit him, and drag him into your bed and keep him there for a day or two until you could get all of this pent-up energy out of your system.

Then you could go back to hating him again on the daily.

You turned the cold water up higher, shivering as it rained down against your bare skin. You had to get this crap out of your head, or the rest of your time stuck in the safe house with Bucky was going to drive you crazy.

Feeling that your annoyance (and whatever else it was bouncing around your head) had abated for a least the time being, you wrapped yourself up in a towel and crossed the dark hallway into the bedroom. You had thrown your phone on the bed again before ducking into the bathroom, and you could see it blinking with a message alert.

You thumbed a few buttons, hoping it was Natasha telling you your rescue would arrive sooner than expected.

>> **So it’s going to be more like 72 hours. Tops** , the message said, and you threw yourself down onto the bed with a groan.

 

The next day was even worse. No matter where you went, Bucky was right at your heels -- or, worse, he had gotten there first. He was leaving the bathroom when you first woke and headed in yourself. He was puttering around the kitchen when you headed down to seek out some breakfast. He was already at the punching bag in the basement when you went down to work off some tension.

You groaned in annoyance, sinking onto a stair to wait your turn, having little else to do to occupy your time. You’d spent too much time with the kickboxing dummy the day before, and your calves and thighs were too sore to take another bout. You had planned on burning off some energy with the punching bag, but Bucky had beat you to it.

You had no intention of staring at him, but there was nothing else in the vicinity to catch your gaze. Bucky had availed himself of the clothing in his own bedroom’s dresser, a pair of grey sweatpants a size or two too large hanging low on his hips as he battered the punching bag. He had tossed the t-shirt he had been wearing to the side, and it hung haphazardly over the kickboxing dummy. 

You eyes were drawn to his back, to the way the muscles shifted beneath his skin as he threw punch after punch at the bag that hung in the basement. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his skin and you couldn’t help the way your mind set off on a whirlwind of naughty little daydreams, most culminating with you dragging your fingernails down his back.

You shook your head and squeezed your eyes shut, willing the images away, so caught up in the machinations of your own mind that you didn’t notice the sound of of Bucky’s fists hitting the punching bag stop. You opened your eyes when you felt a presence near to you, surprised to see him leaning over you, nose almost brushing yours.

“Enjoying the show, doll?” he asked with a smirk, retrieving a water bottle you hadn’t even noticed sitting on the stair beside you. You rolled your eyes when he pulled back, greedily drinking from the bottle, a stray bead of water escaping from the side of his mouth.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you responded with a snort. “Just waiting my turn, Barnes.”

The room seemed warmer now, thick with sweat and feeling hotter for his proximity. You wanted to be disgusted, wanted to tell him he needed to hit the showers sooner rather than later, but you couldn’t; he’d see through your lies. He smelled like hot skin, clean sweat, and something woodsy and dark; the thought rose unbidden, wondering what it would be like to wake to that scent clinging to your bedsheets.

You were really in trouble here.

Bucky gave you a smile, eyes bright and irresistibly blue, and he leaned forward again, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping your face up so that he could peer clearly down into your eyes.

“Pity the fella that keeps a dame like you waiting,” he told you, and winked, then headed up the stairs. You scooted over on the step, allowing him to pass by, just as he had done for you the day before, but he moved more slowly and dragged his fingertips across your shoulder, bare where it poked through the collar of a t-shirt far too large for your frame.

You nearly groaned in frustration at the contact, and when he reached the top of the stairs, you did just that, letting your head sink into your hands.

 

You got a workout in, but your heart and your head weren’t in it. You tried to imagine the punching bag was Bucky’s face, and when that didn’t work, you tried to pretend it was Natasha, since she had gotten you into this whole mess to begin with, but by then you were too frustrated to really put in any effort.

You decided to hit the shower again, wanting the sweat of a failed workout off of your skin, and were annoyed to find the water lukewarm at best. You were hoping for hot, something to beat down and leave your skin warm and red, but it seemed that Bucky had availed himself of most of the hot water already, the damp towels left in a pile in the corner evidence of his own recent bathing. You were scowling when you left the bathroom, hair still damp and dripping down your back to the edge of the towel you’d wrapped around yourself.

When Bucky approached from down the hall, you’d just about had it.

“Hey, I didn’t use up all the hot water on you, did I?” he called. You just sent a glare his way and stomped into your bedroom, quietly seething. You were too angry to think straight, not even pausing to close the door behind you, not realizing you had left an open invitation. 

“Look, doll,” he started, following you in, and you had just had enough.

“Really, Bucky?” you interrupting, turning quickly to face him. “Really? How long have you been living in the 21st century and you still can’t get it through your thick skull that you don’t just get to call women whatever the hell you please?”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Back to this?” he asked, a slow smile curling his lips that only served to infuriate you more.

“Yeah, because apparently whatever filter you’re supposed to have in your head to keep you from saying stupid shit is too damaged to keep you from making an ass of yourself on a regular basis,” you spat back, glaring. 

He was utterly unaffected, and it only made you angrier, watching as his smile grew and he crossed his (amazing) arms over his (well-sculpted) chest, amusement dancing in his (ridiculously blue) eyes. It was only then you noticed that he had never retrieved the shirt he left on the kickboxing dummy, strolling around in a pair of sweats hanging low enough on his waist to leave his hips exposed and preclude any possibility of him wearing anything beneath them.

“Well, give it to me straight, doll,” he told you, and you could almost hear the laughter in his voice. “Don’t hold back on me now.”

“Bad enough I’m stuck in this dump for days on end but I have to get stuck with the one agent in this whole outfit that I can’t stomach ten minutes alone with,” you told him angrily. “And you can’t even restrain yourself from making your stupid little comments all the time to make it at least passable until we get sprung.”

“So that’s it?” he asked curiously, taking a step forward. “Still don’t like it when I call you ‘doll’?”

You rolled your eyes. “You know that I don’t,” you replied.

“See, I’m not so sure about that,” Bucky said, and your eyes tracked his movement as he started walking slowly towards you.

You wouldn’t be swayed, you decided. You’d seen him try and work his charms on others, but it sure as hell wasn’t going to work on you. You couldn’t stand Bucky, not at all. 

“You think I don’t see the way you react?” he said, voice smooth as silk. You took a step back without realizing it, bumping into the old wooden dresser.

“You get yourself so riled up,” he teased, dropping his voice a little lower, a little softer. “But I can see it in your eyes, doll. All I gotta do is look at you, talk to you like you were my girl…”

You inhaled sharply then, squeezing your eyes shut for a long moment, trying to regain your composure. When you opened them again, he was staring right at you. Bucky was close now, so close you could feel the heat rolling off his skin, feel his breath against your face.

“You try and tell yourself it’s cos you’re mad, think of all the nasty little reasons I might be sayin’ it to you, but we know better, don’t we?” he told you. He was standing near flush against you now, barest whisper of space between you, and his little smile grew into a smirk.

“You like it,” he went on smoothly. “You like it when I call you ‘doll’. Gets you all excited, doesn’t it? You just get so mad at yourself, knowing how bad you want it. Want me to call you ‘sweetheart’... ‘honey’...”

He dropped his lips next to your ear and paused a moment, his breath against the shell of your ear drawing an involuntary shiver up your spine.

Voice pitched to a whisper, he said, “You just want me to hold you down in my bed, call you my good little girl, don’t you?”

 

You raised your arm with every intention of pushing him away and slapping him silly; it surprised even you when you tangled your fingers in his hair and yanked his mouth to yours. You bit and sucked at his lips until he opened them for you and you delved in deep, swallowing back the surprised groan that slipped from his lips and realizing only when you pulled away to catch your breath that you’d let your towel fall to the floor, your bare body pressed against him.

“Jesus,” Bucky muttered. “Don’t waste any time, do you doll?”

You couldn’t help the soft little mewl his words drew out from you, turned to a full on gasp when you felt his strong hands grip your thighs and lift you to sit atop the dresser. You quickly wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, drawing him closer, capturing his lips with your own. Your pulse was pounding in your ears, your body on fire everywhere his skin touched yours; you’d been telling yourself for ages that you couldn’t stand Bucky, that you even hated him, but god, this was so, so much better. 

He kissed you slow and sweet, murmuring words against your lips that could have been filth but still sounded divine, coming from him. He slid his hands, flesh work-rough and calloused and metal so cool, but so welcome and soothing against your skin, first up your thighs and then your sides, luxuriating in the touch. Too slow for you, too teasing, and you told him so, begging for more as the heat of his mouth slipped to your jaw, your throat. When he sunk his teeth into your shoulder you cried out, shaking under his touch.

“Bucky, please!” you moaned, and you felt his shoulders shudder beneath your hands.

He sucked at the wound he had made, lapping at the marks of his teeth in your skin, drawing more and more whimpering moans from your lips. Your felt ready to combust; this was torture, pure torture, his touch so innocent and gentle, never where you wanted it.

“Gotta tell me, darlin’,” he panted against your skin. “Gotta tell me what you want. Give you everything, anything you want… just gotta say the word.”

“Touch me,” you told him, voice barely above a whisper. “Please, Bucky, I need to feel you… want to feel your hands, please, please touch me!”

 

He moved slowly, his hands creeping up the top of your thighs first, stroking back and forth. He was going to drive you crazy, you realized; he was going to make you beg for it.

“So gorgeous,” he muttered, eyes cast down between you, sweeping back and forth over the expanse of your exposed skin. “God, I knew you’d be like this… so fuckin’ perfect, doll, just perfect, and all for me.”

He kissed you deeply, languid strokes of his tongue against yours, drawing sparks of electricity across your body with the slightest amount of pressure. His cybernetic hand shifted to hold your hip while the other, made of flesh and bone, drifted lower, his fingertips brushing just gently along your inner thigh. You mewled again, a soft pitiful noise, and you felt him smile against your lips, pulling away to rest his forehead against yours.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Bucky said softly. “I’ll take care of you. Promise.”

He made good on his promise, running a thick finger up your slit, teasing you, before gently pressing inside. You were soaked already; you had been since he started talking, making his trek from the door. You couldn’t help the gasp that escaped you, the way you arched your back, spreading your thighs a little wider, inviting him in.

Bucky didn’t disappoint, starting a slow, smooth rhythm that had your breath hitching in your throat before he even added a second finger, stretching you wider and drawing a moan from you, the only word you seemed to speak being his name. You arched your back, your head hitting the wall behind you with a thump but you didn’t care, too focused on the feeling of his thick fingers inside of you, his wide thumb arched up to rub at your clit while you rolled your hips forward, egging him on and practically begging for more.

A devilish smile crept to his face when he pulled away from the soft skin at your throat and started to slow the movement of his fingers, his metal hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise and to prevent you from any movement.

You whimpered his name in a plaintive cry for more, but Bucky only grinned.

“Gotta tell me, pretty girl,” he said, voice low and thick with unspoken want. He was sweating now, dampened tendrils of his dark hair hanging in his face as he ducked his head, kept his lips close to yours while refusing to touch. “Gotta tell me what you want, baby. Anything you want, you can have it all, but you gotta say it. Tell me.”

You growled in frustrating, the old aggravation surfaced as you locked your ankles behind him, drawing him forward with the strength of your calves. Clearly he was enjoying this as much as you had been only moments before, his arousal thick and heavy in his pants and pressing against your thigh. 

You bit at his lips and he let you, deepening the kiss only long enough to make you keen and arch against him. He was still grinning and you hated him for it.

“What’s it gonna be…” he asked, pausing to lick his kiss-bruised lips. “...doll?”

You don’t want to answer. You try so hard to keep him silent, to deny him that satisfaction. You bite your lip, fought the tight grip of his hand to try and buck your hips, all to no avail. When he moved to mouth along your jaw and pressed a little harder against your clit, you finally broke.

“Please,” you gasped. “Please, Bucky…. Like you said, please, just like you said.”

 

You couldn’t help but inwardly marvel at how effortlessly he lifted you, carrying you from the top of the dresser to spread you out on the bed. You gave a pitiful whimper at the loss of his touch, the loss of his heat against you, but still watched with marked interest as he quickly shucked his sweatpants and kicked them away. Bucky fisted his hardened cock once, twice, and was on you in an instant, kissing you soundly as he settled himself between your thighs.

You gripped at his back, loving the feel of his skin beneath your fingertips, and barely struggled only a little when he pulled your hands from him one at a time, pinning them against the mattress above your head and holding them there with his metal hand.

“Are you gonna be good?” Bucky asked softly. “You my good little girl?”

“Anything,” you panted back. “Anything you want, Bucky, please… want you, want you so bad, I’ll be good, please…”

“Anything for my good girl,” he told you with a grin, and used his free hand to lift your body just enough to slip fully inside you, your name a groan on his lips.

He took your breath away. You had known he was big, but you hadn’t expected it to feel like this, the stretch and burn making your toes curl against the mattress, the weight of his body against you drawing out the intoxicating feelings of warmth and safety.

God, you were so screwed.

Bucky held himself still long enough to make you whimper again, laughing softly in spite of the beads of sweat falling from his brow; he was holding back to make you beg for it, but you could see that it was affecting him just as much. You clenched your muscles, drawing even tighter around him, just to watch the shudder pass over his expression.

“Now you’re gonna get it,” he teased, almost panting. 

Bucky started thrusting his hips in earnest, pounding into you with a strength and dexterity that had you mewling and gasping with every rough rock of his hips. The noises slipping from your lips were almost inhuman, loud and impossible for you to hold back. The old bed was creaking and groaning under the onslaught but you paid it no mind, unable to focus on anything but Bucky and what he was making you feel.

“There’s my girl,” he muttered, lips close to your ear as he leaned forward to bite and lap at the sensitive skin there. “There’s my good girl. So pretty, so pretty and all for me. You my girl, ain’t ya? All mine, nobody else’s…”

You never give your lips permission to speak, but peak they did.

“Yours Bucky, all yours, god you feel so good, soo good for me…” you said, words tumbling out without end, over and over as he prodded you to continue, both of you panting as he asked over and over again if you were his, his good little girl, his and his alone.

Bucky let your hands go free and gripped at your hips, lifting your body off the mattress as his pace quicked. You were close and you told him, begging for him to give it to you harder; Bucky happily obliged.

Your climax hit you in a sudden wave; it swept over your, sending sparks of pleasure that spread into a full current, running up and down your spine, your body tightening even further around Bucky as he rode you through it, your name in a long moan on his lips. He buried his face in the crook of your shoulder, panting hot against your skin as you felt yourself flooded with his warmth.

 

You were both breathing hard when he rolled off of you, head falling back against a pillow as he scrubbed a hand over his face, pushing his sweat-damp hair out of his eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Sweetheart, I think you’re gonna be the death of me…”

You groaned, elbowing him hard in the shoulder even as you moved to cover your face with your hands. “Oh my god, do not call me that…!” you muttered.

You could practically feel the man grinning at you, before you even looked. He had propped himself up on his cybernetic arm and turned onto his side, watching you with a smile.

“Aww,” he said, still smile. “Ain’t you my girl?”

“Bucky…” you started, near ready to launch into another tirade, but then you felt his lips against your collarbone, his hands gently caressing your breasts.

“Just tell me you’re mine, babydoll,” he whispered against your skin. “Say you’re my girl, and I’ll give you anything you want.”

Your breath hitched when his lips encircled one rosy nipple and you breathed out, “Yours, yes, yours, Bucky…”

“S’what I thought,” he mused in return, and began moving south towards your core to clean up the mess he had made.

 

Your extraction came some 18 hours later; you’d both had to rush out of bed and share a quick shower, earning a silent brow-arch from Natasha as you both boarded the quinjet at a rendezvous point some ten miles away with damp hair. Thankfully, she didn’t ask.

Bucky dozed, arms cross over his chest, strapped into a chair beside you, with Natasha sitting across from you, watching you with a smirk.

“What?” you finally asked, frowning at her. 

“Your gear doesn’t cover the bites on your neck,” she replied smoothly and you flushed, reaching to touch the exposed skin above the collar of your tactical suit. You had changed into it before leaving the safe house, too much in a hurry to check for any evidence on your skin.

“Shut up,” you grumbled, cheeks burning.

“Did you really think I left you there this long by accident?” Natasha replied, shaking her head. You gaped; of course, it wouldn’t have been happenstance. Natasha did nothing by accident.

“Why the hell…?” you started.

“Your training is complete. You’re ready to work in the field without a handler. You’re going to be permanently partnered with Barnes.” 

“What?” you asked, eyes widened in surprised. “Me and Bucky? Natasha, I don’t think…”  
She ignored you and cast her glance towards the pilot’s chair, where Clint Barton sat at the controls and added, “It’s always helpful to be on close terms with your partner.”

Turning back to you, she smiled. “Besides. You two have been at each other like cats and dogs for ages. Everyone knew it was just a matter of time.”

You glanced over to Bucky, who was apparently more awake than he had seemed; his eyes were trained on yours, a slow smirk forming on his face.

God, you were in so much trouble.


End file.
